Page 51 of The Writer

“Senior account exec at a company down on Eighty-First,” Cordova calls from the other room. “Started in data entry and worked her way up.”

Declan stretches his foot under the desk and taps the pedal. Maybe she was a gamer too.

The desk drawers are crammed with various office supplies, old bills, a few books, and menus for local takeout. Declan moves through it all so fast, he nearly misses the old Page Six column folded and jammed in the back of the center drawer. “I’ll be damned,” he says. “Hey, Cordova. Come here.”

When Cordova steps in, he hands the paper to him. There’s a photograph of Denise and David Morrow, clearly arguing, beneath the captionMaybe Cinderella should have left the ball at eleven?“It’s the story Susan Reynolds mentioned, right?”

Cordova nods, skimming the text. “Yeah, says they were fighting on and off all night. Denise was drunk for her keynote speech. The piece doesn’t pull any punches. It doesn’t come right out and say David was hitting on other women, but it does say, ‘The friendly husband wasn’t shy about working the room while Denise Morrow was busy calming her nerves with liquid courage.’”

“Oh, shit, let me see that.” Declan pulls the paper from Cordova’s hands and smooths it out on the empty desk. He jabs his finger down on the photograph. “That’s her, right? Mia Gomez?”

Cordova leans in closer.

She’s in the back of the image, near the bathroom doors. Although she’s turned at a slight angle, it’s clearly her. She’s watching the couple just like everyone else in the photo is.

“There’s our smoking gun,” Cordova mutters.

For the first time in a week, Declan feels they’ve caught a real break. What they find in the main bedroom is even more damning: Behind one of the nightstands is a discarded condom wrapper. Same brand as the condoms found on David Morrow’s body.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“THERE’S NO FUCKING WAY we’re going after her again. Not with this circumstantial bullshit,” Lieutenant Marcus Daniels tells them, shaking his head. “You got video of her attorney handing her a shopping bag. Good for you. A condom wrapper? Please.” He blows out a harsh breath. “I don’t know if you have time to catch the news between your various fuckups, but the press is all over you, and ain’t none of it good. Hoffman is screaming dirty cop to anyone in the media willing to listen. TheTimescalled twice today trying to get me to comment. That means they’ve got a story brewing too. I spent half of yesterday getting chewed out by the DA. When he was done with me, the mayor got on my ass. Apparently, Hoffman is a big donor, has the mayor on speed dial. Hoffman gave him a courtesy call to lethim know he was prepping to sue the city on his client’s behalf for false arrest. Plans to file Monday. Damage to her reputation, potential disruption in earnings—he’s claiming her publisher threatened to hold publication of her latest book, and that’s a seven-figure ding to her income by itself. If it happens and you’re wrong about her, the city could be on the hook.”

“I’m not wrong,” Declan insists.

Daniels’s face goes bright red. “You don’t get to be wrong, and you don’t get to be right! You’re not on this case!” He stands and slaps the rumpled Page Six story spread out on his cluttered desk. “What part ofStay away from herare you having trouble understanding? Do I need to take your gun and badge? Lock your ass up? What?”

“Hoffman and Morrow killed the husband, then they lured Gomez into an alley and killed her too.” Declan jabs his finger at Mia Gomez in the photo. “They left that woman’s body in a dumpster. She was twenty-eight years old. You really want to stand in the way of taking them down? You gonna let the DA or the mayor tell you not to do your job?”

It’s a low blow, but Declan doesn’t have a choice.

Daniels looks like he might explode. He grips the edge of his desk and goes quiet for a very long time. Eventually, he asks, “Did you dust the condom wrapper for prints?”

Shit. Declan was really hoping he wouldn’t ask that.

Cordova, who’s been sitting quietly in a chair through all of this, says, “We pulled two latents—both from Mia Gomez.”

“Not the husband.”

“We found the box in her dresser drawer. CSU says perforation marks on one of the condoms found in David Morrow’s pocket matches the marks on the last one in that box. Thatmeans the ones he had on him were torn from the condoms in Mia Gomez’s possession. That’s just as solid as a print. It puts him there. We’ve got CSU dusting every inch of her place right now. We’ll find more.”

That last part is a lie.

Cordova is buying time.

CSU finished with the apartment an hour ago, and none of the prints they found matched David Morrow.

Daniels drops back in his seat. “Look, if the husband was dipping his wick, I get why the writer would want him dead, and that woman too, but I see no reason for her attorney to go along with any of this. You don’t take part in a double homicide because your client asks you nicely.”

“Hoffman’s not just her attorney. From what we’re hearing, he’s a friend… maybe more.”

Daniels takes another look at the picture from Page Six. “Her and Hoffman?”

Cordova nods.

“Christ.”

“This is why you have to let us stay on it,” Declan says.

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